


Where Everybody Knows Your Flame

by goddity



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, poetry night goes ary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddity/pseuds/goddity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the absolute failure that was poetry night at "Visages," Swerve takes it upon himself to host one at his own bar, to mixed results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anchored Ship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aegrisomnia89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegrisomnia89/gifts), [therisingdarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=therisingdarkness).



The crew of the Lost Light had been in need of some positive energy for quite some time, an excuse to "express their feelings," as Rung had suggested. With no better watering hole than the best bar on board, it was only natural that Swerve set something up to lift the spirits of the mechs he called friends.

Movie nights had been going great, though to some mix responses about the film choices - who would have thought that no one would like Moulin Rouge except Magnus? - and drinking games rarely led to anything good. Swerve knew, however, that there were some rather talented mechs aboard who might have revealed some of their skills to the community if they felt everyone was doing it. And when Swerve held events, everyone was doing it. Rung's suggestion of self-expression was the perfect excuse for-!

"A poetry night?" Rodimus' skepticism was almost enough to put him off the idea. Almost, of course! Rodimus was more than likely to see things the barkeep's way when someone inevitably said that they liked the idea.

"Yeah!" Swerve beamed, certain that a little explanation might have been enough to win Rodimus over _before_ he talked to Perceptor or Magnus. "Good chance for some mechs to talk about their feelings, spur on creativity, really uh, promote a sense of community. Not like the folks around here couldn't use a pick-me-up."

An easy way to sway the co-captain was picking up his tab, as Swerve often did anyway to keep Rodimus coming in. Rodimus usually brought a small crowd with him; despite being disliked as a captain, 'bots like Rodimus' company. Free drinks were also an easy way to sway his opinions, so another glass found it's way in front of the hot rod, soft pink contents glimmering under the ideal bar lighting. A good cocktail did more than taste good, it had to look good enough to get other people at the bar to order them, and Rodimus had tastes that apparently drew the attention of a lot of other mechs.

"On the house," Swerve took his empty glasses, careful not to spill them into the sink and break them as Rodimus started on what was his third complimentary drink of the evening. Poetry night would bring more business, Swerve knew, and would make it worth giving out enough to wet the mech's whistle.

Between the mechs that were too nervous to speak in front of a crowd and the mechs that made up the crowd who only came because a friend asked them too, the number of drink sales was bound to go through the roof! Not that Swerve charged all that much for the drinks, he did it for the love of the work, not the love of the money.

"That didn't really work at Visages, did it?" Swerve hadn't hoped that it would come up, since some mechs had thought to point a servo at him thinking he might have purposefully set up a sabotage of the other bar. Which was ridiculous, really. Megatron taking a tip from Swerve? Who would possibly believe that? Swerve would have had to have given a tip to someone else, someone Megatron trusted and would likely considered a friend. This hypothetical mech would have also wanted Megatron to go, someone who believed in the things he created, someone like Rung, or Ravage. Hypothetically speaking.

"Well, that's because someone invited Megatron, isn't it?" Swerve shrugged off the suggestion, knowing that Rodimus wouldn't be likely to suspect him of anything. Not Swerve, a motor-mouth who could power a motor _with_ his mouth. Rodimus stared him down, blue optics glowing with doubt. "Hey, it'll work out great! Maybe Perceptur would come. He seems like the type to write something about science. Maybe Magnus would even come. I heard the guy likes music. Poems are just music without words, and if he's had enough he'll make his own - I've heard that happens."

"Hm." Rodimus took a sip of his drink, effectively droning out the rest of Swerve's explanation while he mulled the concept over. It _did_ seem like a good chance to burst spirits, and the numbers that itched through his palm and into his protoform insisted that a little good PR could go a long way, especially if it ended up being a success.  
"I'll throw in a few free rounds," Swerve enticed, smiled as wide as he dare go. "I know how you need a bit of loosening up from time to time, and maybe you can bring a piece yourself. You know, give the crew a chance to see the you that they didn't see before. The mech under the mistakes."

"You can do it if you don't make me do that." Rodimus flipped his glass over after finishing the sweet syrup, tapping the bar twice. "I'll spread the word around, but I won't personally assure you that Megatron won't show up. The last thing I need is to be purposefully telling people that he shouldn't come. He.. He _is_ co-captain after all." The admittion sounded a bit bitter, but Swerve was ecstatic to have gotten what he wanted, happy to settle Rodimus's tab and clean up another empty glass.

With a little bit of planning, Swerve was sure that the event would go smoothly. He considered making fliers, making a very short list of places he felt that Megatron wouldn't see them, or leaving them around the bar on tables. It'd be a good way to fill the seats with regulars, mechs who intended to pay, and for them to start spreading the word. And seeing him with those little figures he made easily made Ten the best candidate for doing some art for them. Swerve might not have been his biggest fan, but the bot had talent and thought it would be a good way of promoting that sense of unity - after all, art encourages art, right?

While the art was.... non-objective, the lettering really stood out against the colors. Swerve was sure it'd be a success, it had to be a success!

And it would have been a success if Megatron hadn't shown up.

Swerve gritted his dentae when he entered the bar. The only mech who hadn't noticed was the minibot on stage, reciting a freeform verse that Swerve thought was some sort of poetic love confession to a decepticon. It sounded like that. Nearly a dozen mechs had said their piece, but murmurs began to replace that respectful silence of the crowd when the ex-warlord arrived on the scene.

The lights were dimmed and he would have almost been unnoticed if he wasn't _Megatron,_ which was more frustrating than the facts that a few tables had slipped out without paying their tabs. But unlike the incident at "Visages," Megatron made no point of coming to the bar to sign up for the queue, taking a seat in a far corner when he'd easily be forgotten when the next speaker went up.

_Who wants to go to a bar if MEGATRON might be there?_

Rodimus, of course, had enticed both Magnus and Perceptur to come, and responded rather inappropriately with a series of enthusiastic hoots and hollers when Magnus took the stage. Swerve found it hard to focus with the once-leader of the Decepticons in his peripheral view. Megatron said nothing, didn't even order a drink but had a whole table to himself - what terrible etiquette - but clapped gently after each poem. It wasn't _surprising_ that the guy had a soft spot for poetry, given his roots. There was hardly a mech born before the war who hadn't heard at least one of his works; poems, spoken words, letters, articles, even propaganda pieces, everyone had heard at least one before. Swerve knew for a fact that there were a few mechs on board who had old copies of Megatron's works, stuff that came out before the war. Call it nostalgia or an inability to let go of old habits, but those books were on board.

Swerve could admit, silently to himself in his own thoughts where no one could hear him, that even he'd read a few of the 'con's pieces back in the day. He had a way with words. There was a reason that so many Cybertronians had rallied behind him during the uprising. Not that he'd say anything to anyone _ever_ , but Swerve had a very distinct memory of one of the old poems. A lot of folks at the time had theorized that it could have been written about Optimus Prime himself; a love poem, written from the perspective of Luna I, as they fell in love with the sun and eventually fled Cybertron's orbit to die in their heat and become one with their distant lover. It wasn't formatted or anything, open verse and incredibly personal but relatable. Swerve remembered how popular the poem was when it was published the first time, enticing lovers across Cybertron to give each other gifts representing the two celestial bodies. Before the war, he'd even considered having quotes from it hanging up around the bar. Jeez, imagine the embarrassment he'd face for that now.

Five mechs spoke and left the stage before Megatron moved a muscle. The large mech made his way to the bar, sitting at a bar stool far enough away that people would only notice he'd made his way there when Swerve walked away from the service well he'd been hovering around. Swerve might not have openly been a fan of the guy, but there was no way he was going to pass up a sale and ignore someone who could actually pay for a drink, instead of someone like Rodimus who would drink to the point of recharge.  
The little red mech made his way to the far side of the bar, nervous that Megatron _wouldn't_ order and might instead have some choice words for him that may or may not have included some offensive words pointed at the fact that the event was supposed to be kept secret from him.

"What can I get ya?" Was the more appropriate opener, Swerve decided. Megatron mumbled, doing a scrap of a lot to keep his voice down and stay under the radar despite being a giant tank. It was the usual, a hard-but-sweet cocktail that Swerve had lovingly named "The Healing Factor." Two parts engex, one part petrol, and one part a sickly sweet syrup that he'd picked up at a rest stop, Swerve always resisted the urge to ask if Megatron ordered it based off the name alone.

Unlike most patrons, when Megatron ordered a drink he didn't chug it. Swerve wasn't sure if it was a compliment but imagined it could have been; with such humble beginnings, it wasn't hard to imagine that maybe Megatron actually nursed sweet drinks and indulged a little and took his time. At least the mech was consistent.

The foreign Autobot decal caught the light of the engex in the low light. Other patrons listened in on the current speaker - an ex-decepticon who compared the glowing stars to the light of his once-lover. It would have been hard not to notice some parallels to a more famous piece. It was reassuring, that Swerve was right in a way. Art encourages art. 

His servos worked a small towel around the rim of a glass, optics locked on the speaker despite hearing very little of what they said. It was hard to repress the instinct to talk to a customer, knowing that mechs went to a bar to socialize, usually. Megatron wasn't the sort who came to socialize, so when the warlord was the one to very quietly break the silence, it came as a surprise.

_-'Course it may have been the poetry..._

"It's a good crowd." He grumbled. No bitterness, no anger. "A lot of talented mechs on board. Even a few ex-cons I didn't know had this kind of talent."

_I don't trust poetry._

"Yeah." Swerve said, feeling regret creep into his spark at maybe sabotaging "Visages" poetry night. Not that he did. Allegedly. "Nice to get everyone out. Get things out in the open. You know how it is."

_What's the point?_

"Mm." Megatron responded, glancing over his shoulder at the visored mech who spoke, someone who was still bold enough to wear a Decepticon symbol after the war, after Megatron had turned his in. "Sometimes putting art in front of emotions makes them easier to face. Makes things look prettier. Less hurt, less damaged."  


_All these people trying to say something by hiding it behind something else._

Swerve's retort was less eloquent, more of a drawn out "Uhh..." than a formulated word. Megatron's expression went unchanged, uncaring and tired. Swerve nervously laughed it off, surprised to hear anything than an insult or the suggestion of shutting up coming out of the warlord. Megatron didn't come around the bar often, and when he did he kept to himself, drank at the back of the room, finished a cocktail, paid his tab, and left. Swerve could count on one servo how many times he'd seen the ex-con share his table with someone, and twice it had been Ravage and once it had been Rung.

Quickly realizing that there wasn't likely to be much more to the conversation, Megatron's optics fell to rest on his drink. Why he did what he did next, Swerve would never admit.

"Why don't you add yourself to the queue?" Swerve pulled the holopad from a small shelf under the bar, the slant of Megatron's helmet making him look more annoied than confused.

"I think "Visages" was a shining example of the fact that mechs are over my poetry." Swerve, persistent, put the holopad on the bar within reach of Megatron's servo, but far enough away to give him a comfortable berth.

"There's a lot of young mechs around who only know you by reputation," Swerve whispered, hoping no one would notice this prolonged interaction between the barkeep and his patron when there was an event going on and no real reason for the two to be talking. "They probably don't really know that you wrote poetry."

"I don't imagine they're interested in hearing it, Swerve."

"Your poetry changed a lot of mechs, Megatron." Swerve's voice must have sounded more gentle than inviting or encouraging, because the soft pain that slipped into Megatron's vocalizer set the small mech back.

_"-a hazardous attempt at self-understanding."_

"Was that for the better?" Megatron could remember similar words said by a pre-war mech, someone who remembered the uprising. Rung had said the same thing, Rung, someone who had clearly read his work.

Optics peering over his glass as he sipped, Megatron casually wondered how many Autobots had read and remembered his works but chosen the other side. Despite having his own optics hidden behind a visor, Megatron could see the gears turning in his bartender's brain.

"How about I make it better on ya? You think they think _your_ stuff is bad? If you sign into the queue, I'll go before you. After I speak, you'll sound like the Avatar of Primus himself."

_"This ship is a refuge for the emotionally inarticulate."_

Megatron pursed his lips. It seemed ridiculous that Swerve was insisting. If Swerve was such a fan of his work or wanted to hear his poetry, he was certain that there were files somewhere of him reading them himself. He knew for a fact there was an archivist on board who had thousands of audio files from his speeches before the war, and they even frequented Swerves. He often saw the minibot around the ex-decepticon who recited the star poem.

Swerve didn't seem coerced by his sour expression.

"I haven't written in vorns." Megatron lied through his dentae. In truth, he never _stopped_ writing, but at some point he'd just stopped publishing, stopped writing things down, stopped sharing the verses. The night at "Visages" hadn't helped, it hadn't made him want to share things again. He knew the faces of Decepticons who walked out of that room, Autobots he had met in battle, NAILs he'd never seen before - people who all knew the power of his words. People who had just stopped caring about a washed up dictator. Frag, even a traitor to his own symbol.

Swerve wasn't deterred by _that_ either.

"Well you've got vorns of material. I'm sure you can think of something to read." The small mech leaned over the bar, one arm thudding onto the laminate surface as he shifted. "Heck, I might have a few holopads around that have your work on 'em. Don't even need to have it memorized."

So Swerve was indeed one of the mechs who held onto his works.

"Fine." Megatron conceded. Knowing how long Swerve could go on for, it was just easier to give him what he wanted than to try to argue why most things he wanted were a terrible idea.

When he picked up the holopad to add his name, he took note of the five mechs before him in the queue. One of them was a Decepticon; he knew the name, remembered seeing it before, but couldn't put a face to it. It left a bitterness in his mouth - knowing he had once had such a personal connection to his work, to the people he considered his, that he had let things get so out of hand... With a few gentle taps, his name was added to the list. He passed the pad to Swerve and watched the bartender repeat the actions with his own name.

A new speaker took the stage after a polite round of applause and the two veterans fell silent. Megatron had gotten lost in his drink while Swerve got lost on the stage. It was a meager stage they'd thrown together for the event; a few crates with a black tarp over it to make it look more solid, a few lights adjusted for ambiance so they would stay on when the rest went off, and a small commlink broadcast signal that didn't reach outside of the bar. Swerve wanted to make sure the only people who heard the poems were the ones who came to the bar - better for business that way.

One read a poem about their first kill. One read a poem about their first time off planet. One read a symbolic piece about their badge, comparing it to both an anchor and an engine - Swerve noted that Megatron paid more attention to this speaker than the other four. One wrote about their experience with a human on Earth. The final spoke of nothing specific, a series of seemingly disconnected words that all purposefully had more than one meaning. He wouldn't say that he understood that one, but Swerve had a genuine interest in trying to. He had never really been a big fan of poetry himself, mostly due to his lack of own skill.

Swerve was someone who had ended up fortunate; he was a talented metallurgist, and his personality blossomed when he opened the bar. He'd been happy where he started and he was happier where he ended up. Swerve had done a lot of things mechs couldn't imagine. And sure, he was no Ratchet, but he had talented hands and he was good at what he did. Except when it came to art.

The universe was filled with Rosanna's and Ten's and Megatron's - people who could create and share and inspire people they never saw and never touched. They became figures, they were liked by people who hardly knew them, without ever doing anything besides being themselves and Swerve.... Swerve had to admit he was a bit jealous of that. When doing the best you could didn't result in half the people you tried to impress liking you, well, it made the whole thing feel like a waste of time. Not to cross wires, Swerve _was_ happy and thankful serving behind a bar; naming cocktails, mixing drinks, listening to woes and Earth music while he planned events and showed movies. But sometimes a mech still wanted what they couldn't have, and Swerve wanted just a taste of that kind of creativity.

That was the best part about poetry. Swerve wouldn't _admit_ that, probably not even to Rung, couldn't let anyone think that something was wrong, but art inspired art. Even the art of people like Megatron could inspire people like Swerve. And in truth, Swerve was very, very inspired by the work of Megatron. You'd be hard pressed to find a mech who _didn't_ like at least one of his poems. Not that he'd admit it, but even Ultra Magnus had been caught a few times quoting verse by the unsavory character. Not that Swerve could recognize them.

He didn't know why he felt so compelled to hear Megatron speak. Of course he was a fan, of course he felt bad about what happened at "Visages," even if it worked out for him in the end. But why _Megatron? ___Out of every mech he knew, Megatron wasn't the only creative, it didn't _have_ to be Megatron, did it?  
Swerve didn't notice that Megatron had taken the stage until he noticed that the only sound was that of this own thoughts, a rare thing in the bar. Usually there were whispers, the soft _clink!_ of a glass on a table, the sound of a straw making a feeble attempt to try to slurp up the last of the patron's engex. But there was no sound as the audience looked on Megatron: more tense and judgmental than Swerve could have imagined.

But he spoke. 

A few tables in the back cleared out before he finished, Autobots first and Decepticons to the rear. If Swerve wasn't the sort who was desperate to attach himself to the title 'friend,' he would have gone so far as to say that Megatron didn't have a friend in the room. 

By the time Megatron reached his fourth verse, the only table still occupied was Mangus, er, Minimus, and Rodimus. Perceptor had apparently bailed, not enticed enough by his company to listen to the works of Megatron in a bar that had been second best a few weeks before and only sprung back because of what was literally happening in front of his eyes. 

The small red bartender was surprised to hear that it was a poem he knew. Not the one about the sun and the moon as he had privately hoped, but a poem Swerve had read during the war. It had been in a collection of allegedly stolen pieces, and was generally believed to be a fake. Most Decepticons preached that it was fake because the poem was examined and perceived to be about Megatron's regret of taking a life, one where he specifically saw light leave the optics of his victim. Despite it's dark story, it was all incredibly flowery and delicate, a poem by a poet, not a warlord. Some had whispered at the time that Megatron purposefully released the poem in hopes of people thinking he'd wanted the war to end, but it was just written off as a hoax. However, those who read Megatron's work, who knew his choice of synonyms, who knew how he parted his phrases....  
It was an easy style to recognize. 

The words were bitter despite their pain, and Swerve didn't blame him. The lights weren't so bright that Megatron couldn't see how the seats emptied when he spoke. Swerve didn't know if Megatron had ever even read this poem out loud, let alone in front of ex-Decepticons, people who had insisted it hadn't been real. Swerve was bitter himself, knowing that this would have been a real event back in the day - Megatron in the flesh, reading original works in a bar. He would have called the deserters ungrateful if it hadn't been for the whole, you know, genocide thing. 

When he finished, he was met with the meager applause from Rodimus and Minimus. Swerve clapped too, careful not to overcompensate for the empty room and make things awkward. It was a bit too late for that, and he was a little overzealous, but he could have sworn he saw Megatron smile for a nano-click. Of all the times he wished he'd had the camera ready.... 

Megatron returned to his bar stool, taking a hard swig of the Healing Factor. Swerve was all smiles and spark-glow, until he caught the venomous edge of Megatron's voice. 

"Your turn, barkeep." 

Swerve swallowed his nervous in the form of a full glass of engex before taking to the stage. 

"Hey everybody!" His entertaining instincts took over as soon as he reached the stage. He could hear Minimus groan. "How're we all doing to night?" 

The soft _Whoo!_ from Rodimus was the best he was going to get. 

"So, uh, I'd call our first poetry night here at _Swerve's_ a success, and just in case it hasn't been enough for ya, and you're still begging for more-" a flourish of the wrist for added dramatic effect. "-your last presenter is me!" 

Swerve was almost thankful that everyone else had left the bar and was willing to be the entire dispensary that Minimus would have left too if Rodimus hadn't been holding him there by a heavy, affectionate arm on his shoulder. Rodimus, by fault of Swerve, had a few too many drinks, which were likely the reason he didn't barrel out of the room when Megatron started. Now, Minimus was equally trapped and had to listen to the only thing the green mech might have considered worse than Megatron's poetry. 

_Swerve's._

Unrefined, a bit sloppy and careless in word choice, the bartender's work was nothing to write home about. While he'd rehearsed this poem specifically a few times, occasionally tweaking words and changing the order of some of the lines, the message was always the same. When coupled with his enthusiastic delivery and cheerful facade, it was easy to overlook the fact that the poem was... a reluctant cry for help and an admission of his own loneliness. Swerve imagined that, if Rung were present, he would have commended him on his ability to express himself, even if he were being negative. Rung being Rung, though, he wanted to give his clients an opportunity to express themselves without him being able to hear. Which was a shame, since Swerve happened to know that Rung had a copy of _Peace Through Tyranny_ that he may or may not have asked to borrow a few times during sessions, though he never did because Rung always politely asked why he was interested and Swerve hastily changed the subject. 

While an intoxicated Rodimus wasn't likely to pick up on much more than the fact that Swerve was on stage and saying words, Minimus and Megatron were both painfully aware of Swerve's botched symbolism and metaphors. 

"So, uh, thanks for comin' everyone, you don't have to go to berth but you can't stay here unless you're helping me clean up!" 

Minimus was polite enough to thank Swerve for the evening and leave a tip on the table while escorting out a Rodimus who was singing the wrong words to the song that could be heard over the speakers in the deafening silence of the bar. 

The red mech had expected that Megatron would have left after the poem, but found him still seated on his stool when he passed behind the bar. All of a sudden he felt a present heat in his faceplates, one he honestly hadn't expected. 

"It's not the worst I've heard," Megatron said with an unusual politeness. 

"Thanks?" Swerve helped himself to Megatron's empty glass, adding it to the sink before grimacing and realizing how many glasses had been left on tables when the crowd bugged out. A bit embarrassed that his own routine slipped his mind, Swerve went back to the tables, gathering glasses and hearing the distinct sound of glass-on-glass a few tables away. 

Just out of arm's reach was Megatron, loading empty, sticky glasses onto his servos. 

"You, uh, don't actually have to stay and help." No one had _ever_ taken Swerve up on the offer except Ten, who was sort of an employee. Sort of. And even then, it could be argued that Ten cleaned up because Swerve told him to not... not because of why-ever Megatron was doing it. 

With a heavy sigh, Megatron took the glasses to the bar top, leaving them onto the counter as opposed to the quickly-filled sink. "It's my fault they left." 

Despite wanting to argue the point, it was true. Be it because of their own taste in poetry or Megatron's reputation or what it meant to have him on board, the guests had left because of him. Swerve, master of suave moves and conversational segways, decided to change the subject. 

"You know, a lot of people didn't even think you wrote that poem. When it was released all the publishers said your name wasn't on any of the pieces and they weren't titled, which was unlike you." 

The bar had fallen silent beneath Swerve's droning timbre. 

"Actually, I don't think there was any confirmation that you wrote those until tonight. They always called them 'The Lost Verses' since those poems were never released any other way, and even if you had released them later people probably wouldn't have believed it and would have just said you were putting your name on someone else's work." 

"Hm." Was all Megatron seemed to have to say in response. 

The two gathered glasses and wiped tables in a surprising silence until Swerve was left to do dishes, bidding Megatron an equally surprising, caring goodnight before he left the darkened bar, old Earth music playing softly as his silhouette vanished behind automatic doors. 

Swerve's servos worked through each glass was water poured over them and against the steel edges of the sink. Poetry night had gone pretty well, despite the snafu where everyone left. He scrubbed at a dark spot on a glass. 

Why did he even care that people had left? Unpaid tabs and uncounted shanix weren't new. Swerve didn't care about the money, it was never about that. So _why_ was he letting it bother him? What could he possibly care about? Why would it bother him that people left when Megatron spoke? They didn't have anything in common; no shared regrets about the war, no wistful remorse that people carefully chose what words they wanted to listen to, no ache at the absence of people they thought were friends, no sting left from betrayals or abandonment, no... no longing for something better, no dreaming of electric sheep and the occasional kindness.. 

The spot must've come off the glass while he was thinking. Swerve put it on the drying rack and worked his way through the others. 

Sure, Megatron made mistakes. No one on the ship was perfect, except maybe Rung. Everyone had done things wrong. Sure, Megatron had done a _lot_ of wrong things and had hurt a lot of people, but Megatron was doing something a lot of Decepticons never did. Megatron was trying to make amends. Megatron was trying to make things as right as he could. Megatron was ready for judgement. Was Megatron _really_ any better than Optimus? I mean, no, in a lot of ways he was worse but Optimus made mistakes too. People praised him, some bots like Rodimus still idolized him after everything that he'd done. Plenty of mechs forgave Optimus for what he did. Megatron wasn't really looking for forgiveness. 

In the soft light of the distillery behind him, rainbow lights dancing over his servos when he held up a glass to the light, Swerve wondered if Megatron would ever forgive himself. 


	2. Intimate Artistry

  
Days passed as anyone would have expected them to: daily scandals about what bots were sleeping with who, a rumor mill that could have put Cybertron's energon mines to shame, and the slew of intoxicated patrons who couldn't wait to tell Swerve all about it. Of course, there were was also the overwhelming majority that not only complained about poetry night but complained about Megatron's appearance specifically, siting that maybe Swerve shouldn't have let him add himself to the queue. Like the best host he could be, Swerve often agreed out of courtesy. In truth he'd been... Thankful for the usually intimate night he'd shared with the once-warlord.

He liked it enough that Swerve had the downright terrible idea of hosting another poetry night after a few decacycles. The response was... Mixed. There were a few select mechs who had a good time at the first event (until Megatron showed up) and said they would be willing to attend a second event (unless Megatron showed up), even going so far as to suggest Swerve starting the poet's queue early. Good speakers would draw a bigger crowd, which was true. If someone spoke the first night and someone else liked what they had heard, it was likely that they would not only come back, but that they might bring a friend along too. Swerve didn't bother to mention to anyone that he reason he was bothering to hold a second night was to entice Megatron into coming back and reading again.

To set the record straight, Swerve reminded himself, liking the 'con's poetry didn't mean that _he_ was a 'con. He was just a mech enjoying some writing, enjoying some thoughtful and meaningful words that were masked by a dedicated and sophisticated symbolism that maybe was needed on the Lost Light more than his crew mates wanted to admit. Megatron's work, with some exceptions, was timeless. And it was well done! He wasn't some amateur still comparing their bond mates to off-planet summer changes, or in Swerve's case an Earth B-Movie protagonist. It was just a... A polite gesture. Give the old mech a new platform to speak. Give him a chance to be heard again, and maybe have him talking about something that wasn't the war.

It was no secret that the crew hated Megatron. A bar-enacted poll suggested that not only was he hated, but he was hated more that Rodimus. This late into the journey, it would have been considered impressive if Swerve didn't feel bad for him, for some reason. Everyone made mistakes. No one on board had clean hands. But no one else got graffiti on their habisuite doors. Whenever someone asked when the second poetry night was supposed to be, Swerve mumbled an indefinite date. He couldn't say why it was indefinite, he didn't want to actively admit that he was waiting for Megatron to RSVP to the event, not after last time, not that he could let people know that he was interested in having the guy around.... But it was happening. Eventually.

The only mech that Swerve came close to confessing to was Rung. Rung never drank but ended up at the bar a lot, usually just to have few moments of rest when he wasn't working with one of his 200+ clients. Rung, Ratchet, and Swerve were the only people on the ship who really worked with most of the crew. The less-than-polite sitcom term was "background character," or "extras," which was a pretty accurate description of a lot of the bots on board.

Rung wasn't a fan of that description when Swerve was sitting on the other side of a therapy session saying it out loud. Rather than digging himself deeper with Rung's question of "Do you think that you view you and your friends as more important as them?" Swerve diverted the focus to poetry night.

"I heard the last one cleared out when Megatron showed up." Rung said gently. Swerve knew that the doctor and the ex-warlord spoke a lot, and it was no surprise that Megatron had demons. Swerve was impressed that Rung hid his own emotions so easily when he cared about the old mech. Rung seemed to just generally care about everyone.

"Yeah," Swerve had less skill at hiding his own emotions in front of Rung. Rung validated him, told him it was okay to feel things. When a bar was between him and a conversationalist, it wasn't as though they were likely to care about Swerve's feelings. Hiding emotions in low light where heavy music played was easy. Rung didn't make that kind of thing easy, what with his understanding and compassionate eyebrows and his soft and gentle vocalizer. "Everyone was pretty good. Megatron was good too."

"I remember you being a fan of his work." Rung added. "I also heard that you spoke that night."

"Uh, yeah." Swerve confessed. "It wasn't that good or anything and I didn't have time to polish it. You know how it is, good ol' impulsive Swerve. I just agreed to..."

"You agreed to it? Swerve, it's your bar, isn't it?"

And the truth came spilling out.

"I used it as an incentive to get Megatron to read too."

Rung didn't need to ask why Swerve wanted Megatron to read. They were both fans of his writing. It was one of quite a few traits that Swerve and Rung shared, even though they never seemed to click in social situations.

"Is that why you're planning a second night? To get Megatron to come back and read again?"

"...yeah." Swerve laced his servos, realizing how manipulative and unfair it was when Rung said it. Not too unfair for a Decepticon to act on, probably. But for a moderately responsible Autobot, it was probably too much. "It, uh, sounds a lot worse when you say it like that."

"Why haven't you chosen to talk to him about it?"

Swerve _pfft_ 'd, one of the most highly coveted sounds in Cybtertronian culture. "Have you _met_ me? And the guy's impossible to read. Aside from propaganda, news reels, and literary analysis, all I know about Megatron is how he likes his drinks. The guy used to be the leader of the Decepticons and hardly leaves his room these days. Ever since the whole Brainstorm thing. It's not like he's exceptionally well liked or walking around with handsome bots on either arm. He's not social and I'm..."

'Desperate for contact' seemed a little too brutally honest.

"He's a mech just like you or me, Swerve." The doctor reassured with a gentle smile. "The war is over. Many of us have wounds that still haven't healed from the war, it's easy to forgot that Megatron wears an Autobot symbol now, and harder still for people to trust him. But he recharges on a slab, works with his servos, and has a spark. Just like the rest of us, despite what happened." Rung took off his glasses, wiping the lenses with a cloth from his subspace. "The poet is still in him."

Swerve wasn't sure what kind of advice or guidance he was supposed to walk away from the session with, but poetry night still felt like a good choice. Comms went out, a queue was made, and somewhere near the bottom of the list was Megatron's name, right before Swerve's.

At least, it felt like a good choice until Swerve saw how small the crowd was. Less than half of the previous audience had shown up to the event, and even fewer had put their names into the queue. Some of those that had put their names in hadn't even bothered to show up. Apparently the rumor that Megatron was supposed to attend again had spread like a grease fire.

The red mech knew that... well, that Megatron would know why the crowd was small and why attendance had dwindled. It wasn't fair to try to blame him or hold him accountable, but Swerve had a bitterness about the whole affair.

Poetry night, at it's core, was supposed to be about expression and maybe acceptance. He could argue acceptance was part of it to Minimus, so it was about acceptance. Rung himself had said it was a good idea, had encouraged him to try again, and bots were just taking it for granted. They all walked around, acting like they had clean servos.

But the crowd that showed up was still active, still ordered drinks, didn't make a big deal out of the smaller pool of listeners or anything. Swerve recognized a few faces from the first time - the microphone, the ex-decepticon, surprisingly, Minimus - and a few faces that were probably pulled along and mumbled annoyed thanks when Swerve brought their drinks.

A slow night, but better than the slower nights at Swerve's.

Be it because of his frustration or the lack of content, none of the poems really stood out this time around. Swerve felt that Rung would have suggested it had to do with anticipation of Megatron's piece, but it was halfway through the set and Megatron had yet to show up. Without having a full bar to serve or a large variety of readers to distract him, Swerve found his optics falling on the door a bit too frequently. It was apparently frequent enough that one of the minibots -the microphone? He knew it wasn't the ex-con- made a point of mentioning it to him.

Swerve lied and said there was something wrong with the lights. He followed it up with a whisper to not tell Minimus. It satisfied the minibot's curiosity and they slipped back to their table without much more of a word.

The least noticeable of Swerve's nervous ticks was polishing glasses. Thankfully, he had a lot of glasses to work through polishing. Active servos at least made it look like he was thinking, maybe just zoning out instead of staring intently at the door and waiting for Megatron to show up. Which of course, led to the thought process where Swerve had to admit to himself that he was polishing glasses so he looked busy and didn't have to admit to anyone that was he was actually waiting for Megatron, scourge of Cybertron, destroyer of worlds and Autobots alike, ruthless warrior and bloodthirsty warlord, to come into this bar and read poetry in the dim lights that reflected off the gray of his frame and-

Swerve realized he might have been lying about a few things.

But it was normal to be... interested in the _idea_ of someone, wasn't it? Even if it was the idea of someone like Megatron? A tightened grip elicited a small _cric!_ from the glass in his servos, a few small shards of glass dropping to the floor and falling silently onto the rubber mat that prevented Swerve from slipping if there was a spill. He knelt down, picking up pieces and placing them into his palm.

A lot of mechs had things for celebrities. Everyone knew about the torch he'd carried for Blurr for... longer than he would have liked to admit. He still hadn't gotten the numbers buffed out. Liking a celebrity was liking an idea, a concept, a perceptual image of them. And it wasn't _really_ Megatron, it was the poetry. It was the art. Everyone loved art. Sort of. Most mechs loved some kind of art; the art of war, the art of poetry, the art of painting, the art of bar-tending... It was just poetry. It was just systematically, purposefully placed words that were designed to evoke emotions. Swerve thought, actually thought, about conversations he'd had with Megatron. Shocking! He could count them all on one servo, just a few digits worth of conversation. But he'd _read_ his works for years! He practically had poems and essays memorized, those where what he liked, what he was into.

What Cybertronian didn't want their conjux to compare them to the bright warmth and glow of the sun? Who didn't want to know that their love was immortalized, that poetry could move entire planets, entire nations, to change? To think one mech sat down and wrote and wrote and wrote enough to change the entire world? To change the galaxy? Granted, it wasn't all for the better. A lot of it was for the worse, most would argue. But it was change. It was change that was almost exclusively led by one mech who thought they were doing the right thing, who was doing the best they could.

It was hard not to be in love with a concept like that, wasn't it?

Swerve looked at the glass in his hand as he stood. Each piece reflected different colors from the distillery, just like-

"Healing Factor." The sound that Swerve made was not unlike a scream, but was expertly muted by clenched dentae and closed lips, instead making a whining sound that was much much less conspicuous than screaming. By the time Swerve realized he was still making the sound, it was pretty clear that Megatron had heard more than enough of it.

"H-Healing Factor!" Swerve's vocalizer cycled, leaving a burning in his faceplates as he grabbed bottles and a glass. He'd lost himself in so much thought that he hadn't even heard Megatron come in, or sit down, or the soft mutters that came with him from the audience.

Unlike the last poetry night, no mechs had filed out just yet, though most of the audience was staring back at the bar instead of the stage. The reader didn't care much and kept talking anyway, apparently unphased by the lack of attention. Swerve realized that if they hadn't been staring because of Megatron, it was very possible that his own sound had drawn attention. Most of them had gone back to minding their own business by the time Swerve put the filled glass on the counter, complete with a garnish and a napkin under the glass.

With a muttered thanks Megatron helped himself to the drink, taking gracious sips as ever. The red mech filed the guest's interest in the cocktail away with the 'idea of' Megatron as opposed to Actual Megatron™. Then again, was a detail like that the idea of a person? Swerve was watching it happen, watching him react to the taste of the drink and watching him finish it every night he came in. It was an actual thing Actual Megatron™ did. It wasn't... It wasn't an impersonal impression like the poetry.

Rather than shoot the breeze with the warlord, Swerve made a point of collecting empty glasses from the tables furthest from the stage and replenishing drinks for those who requested them. Tonight he wouldn't let Megatron go to his head. Tonight, he'd just treat poetry night like poetry night and treat Megatron like he wasn't one of the best Cybertronian poets whoever lived or anything like that. Just a bunch of mechs in a quiet dark bar, enjoying poetry and mixed drinks. Putting it that way, Swerve saw a lot of parallels to films he'd seen. And songs he'd heard.

It didn't have to matter, though. It was just poetry night.

It was just poetry night.

Swerve managed to keep busy until it was Megatron's turn to speak, which he was thankful for. He didn't know that he could have had another conversation over the bar, struggling to find things to talk about that weren't Megatron. The ex-con walked to the small stage when there was the ping over his commlink that it was his turn. The crowd fell silent enough that Swerve could hear the clink of his servos against empty glasses as he worked on cleaning them. Something in his spark ached seeing Megatron stand there.

He didn't look emboldened by the crowd. Megatron wasn't one of those mechs who had a problem with public speaking, but it was clear that he knew he still wasn't welcome. Granted, Megatron probably hadn't figured out that the entire event was for him yet, and he really had more right to be there than anyone else, but the crowd was unmoved. At least this crowd was quiet and kind enough not to heckle. Swerve didn't usually let that kind of behavior run rampant, especially since Whirl would have shown up and heckled every last speaker if Swerve hadn't lied and said it started two hours after it was supposed to be over. At least the crowd was quiet. Respectful, skeptical, hateful, and quiet.

Tonight, Megatron had chosen a less political poem. It was a poem he'd written during his rise to power, about the beauty of some of Cybertron's cities that he visited. While it generally went undisclosed with his political rise following in it's wake, it was... interesting. Swerve was familiar with the cities in what a lot would have considered their prime, before the war. People who spent all their time in the city never got to know how beautiful the city was. Restless, a bit grimy, loud and beautiful, even in the bad parts of town. Factories in Dead End had some of the best views of the sky, but high rises in Iacon showed you the city and lights stretching almost as far as the horizon. A lot of mechs spent their whole lives in one place, sometimes in a block or two of buildings. To just hear the authentic awe of someone who saw many of them for the first time, with fresh eyes and hope for change, it made Swerve a little homesick. Not that he didn't love a good quest, but it was hard not to miss Cybertron.

Thinking about why he might have chosen the poem, Megatron might have missed Cybertron too. When the light applause followed, Swerve figured they might not have been the only ones.

Megatron was the last speaker that night, and Swerve closed out the evening with his usual bit-

" _You don't have to go to berth, but you can't stay here unless you're helping me clean up!_ " And with that, most of the bar cleared out.

All except Megatron.

Swerve's head spun when he realized he'd stayed behind, trying to work out why he would. He hadn't done anything to upset the warlord, he thought. The crowd had cleared out, tabs had been settled, glasses had been gathered, and aside from draining the sink and some general maintenance, Swerve would have the bar closed up in no time flat.

But there he sat, on the bar stool he'd chosen when he came in, the same bar stool he'd chosen last time around, finishing what was left of his drink while he let Swerve cross behind the bar unacknowledged.

"So, uh, good night?" Swerve tried. It hadn't been that many readers and Swerve had admittedly been distracted when Megatron arrived, distracted enough that he didn't even know _when_ he arrived, let alone how long he had been on the floor with glass in his hand.

Megatron gave a soft grunt in response, placing his finished drink on the counter, closer to Swerve so it was easier to pick up.

"Uh, good piece tonight. From you I mean. The piece you read." Swerve exvented softly. He was usually... decent with words. Decent with words that were used in regular conversations and didn't mean anything. And sure, it was _Megatron_ , but... why was talking so hard? "A lot of mechs forgot what beauty was during the war. Forgot places could be beautiful. Or, uh, that they used to be beautiful."

"Thank you." Swerve felt his vocalizer constrict at what sounded like real humbleness from Megatron. Humble? Megatron? He reminded himself to keep the words apart. "No reading yourself tonight, hm, barkeep?"

"Huh? Oh, no, uh, too much to do. People stuck around, ordering drinks, keeping me busy. Just, uh, why drive out crowds twice, right?" Swerve laughed, and awkward forced sound. He hoped the mention of a driven-away crowd wouldn't have been upsetting to Megatron. He hoped that maybe he wasn't asking out of relief for not having to hear another poem from Swerve.

"Thanks for hosting another night, as well, Swerve."

The small bartender nearly broke the glass as he pulled it away from the warlord. Of all the things that he was used to people saying to him, _thanks_ wasn't really among them. Not when they weren't getting a full glass.

"Y-Yeah," Swerve muttered. "No problem."

Glass after glass found it's way to the sink, Megatron turned chairs over and flipped them onto tables to ease the cleaning for the floor - something that Sweve didn't do every night but knew that she should do every night with Minimus on board. Megatron even helped with the floors.

Once again he left, without much of another word, slipping into the darkened corridor that led out of the bar and back into the ship.

Swerve watched him go, servos closed around a mop after insisting that he'd finish the work alone. Megatron hadn't argued.

The floor shined with cleaner as Swerve worked, sloppier than an inspector would have wanted but making the floor clean enough that most patrons would notice that he'd cleaned. If there was anything that Swerve was good at, besides making drinks, it was running his mouth. How did Megatron, of all mechs, make it so hard for him to speak? It's not like he was Blurr, it's not like he was a good kind of famous. Truthfully though... it wasn't like Swerve himself were much of a good kind of anything.

The music played softly overhead, lulling him closer and closer to a deeply desired recharge. Rather than leaving his bar though, Swerve walked himself onto the stage, before an audience who'd left cycles before, reading a poem he'd written but didn't have the courage to read earlier in the night with anyone in the room.

Poetry.

_"-a hazardous attempt at self-understanding."_


	3. Gibberish of Love

Another session with Rung, and Swerve felt no closer to understanding himself. Sure, he was having an easier time understanding his _feelings_ \- which were apparently a blossoming attraction to _Megatron_ that he found so embarrassing that despite being aware of Rung's Hippocratic oath forced Rung to swear not to tell - but was by no means having an easier time understanding why he had them. Every time he tried to mentally confront them, he found himself with more questions than answers.

Why would _anyone _be attracted to Megatron after the war? Okay, maybe not just anyone. There was probably a line of Decepticons that could stretch across the surface of Cybertron that would eagerly wait to be Megatron's berth-mate, even if it was temporary. But for an Autobot, and not just any Autobot but _Swerve_ , who might not really have been known for following all of the rules but sure as scrap wasn't going to go around breaking _that_ rule... It didn't make sense! There was the whole idea of being in love with someone, the idea of loving the concept of anyone, but what had started out as a harmless, fleeting crush was turning into spark-crushing levels of adoration and honest-to-Primus lust at certain intervals. Even the mention of it had made Rung blush, and the guy had to have the most insider information as to who was fragging who that a mention of this kind of thing should have been a drop in a pond.__

And why would, hypothetically, Megatron waste anytime on a small-time metallurgist-turned-bartender? Of course Swerve was the only one who knew how to mix his drinks but, with a recipe list, any bot could do it, and anyone could hold a poetry night if they had a venue to command, and of the conversations they had, the one hand's worth, Swerve hadn't been much more than his usual bumbling, obnoxious, 'desperate for contact' self and doubted that there would have been a lot of merit in having a berth-mate with a personality like that. 

Naturally Rung had tried to tell him that he had a lot of redeemable qualities and even came prepared with a list that did do a rather decent job of lifting Swerve's spirits. Rung had a knack for making bots feel better for the most part, but a lot of the time those good feelings went rushing out of him when he walked out of Rung's office and had to wait until the next appointment he'd scheduled onto the holopad. 

Knowing it would spare himself some pain and suffering, Swerve made a point of scheduling the appointment after what he hoped would be a successful third poetry night, determined not to learn his lesson or move forward with any kind of advances towards Megatron. 

What would bots say, if he did try to make advances? They would probably go ahead and spread rumors about how Swerve was so desperate that now he'd hang out with mechs who failed the ambus test and mechs who were responsible for genocidal slaughter on a planetary level. It wasn't as if he kept a lot of company anyway besides a few of the "main cast," another term that Rung had politely detested due to the implication of Swerve's inflated self importance for himself and his friends. Though, to be fair, it sure did seem like everything on the ship happened to them. Slag, there were mechs on the ship who's names went unknown to Swerve - and Swerve knew _Rung's_ name. 

Not to mention what they'd say if Megatron rejected him. That was a tough thing to imagine; being rejected by the least-liked bot on the ship. Granted he didn't have a lot to bring to the table and knew that he had his own fair share of short comings, but when you've committed mass genocide it seems like the conjux pool would be pretty limited to people who assisted in said genocide and people who lacked good moral judgement. Swerve didn't like admitting that he found himself falling into the latter group but figured it was better than falling into the former. The whole concept left a churning ache in his tanks. 

Who would have guessed that being attractive to someone almost unanimously viewed as one of the worst people in history would have left him feeling so conflicted? 

Swerve felt the aches only get worse when he started to set up the groundwork for the queue. How long could he let this go on, really? How many times could he write through this and just keep hoping that profits would roll in and let him keep having these admittedly pathetic evenings where he watched Megatron read long-forgotten poetry to a pool of mechs who couldn't care less, while he stood behind the bar and pined over him like a newbuild? Swerve figured he could let it go on for a few vorns. After all, if he carried the torch for Blurr after.... You know, it didn't really matter how long it was. He had new interests. Terrible, murderous interests that came in a modest matte grey and turned into a tank. Sensible, Autobot interests. 

If that old poem had been written for Optimus Prime, then Orion Pax, Swerve couldn't imagine the conflict the ol' bot had gone through trying to chose between literally love and war. Life was hard in space and no one seemed to care enough to try to understand. 

His habisuite felt empty by comparison of the bar, but at Rung's recommendation - since no one else's would have influenced him - he had opted to take a night off, which was just as well since business had been on and off for a few nights. Rung had suggested that being closed a few nights would entice customers to show up when he's open, as opposed to putting off a visit. While untested, and unlikely that Swerve would want to spend more time off, he was a little relieved to have time to not have to be waiting on other bots servos and pedes. The only downside to being a bartender was people refusing to miss you until you were gone or two busy to serve them. But that generally just seemed to be the way things were for Swerve - unwanted until he was needed or someone didn't want to do something they could make him do. 

But being wanted to do something menial was better than being unwanted, wasn't it? 

The ache crept back in full force as his servos worked over the holopad and assembled the queue. Feeling unwanted was probably an all-to-present feeling for Megatron, what with the 'everything' and all. In all likelihood, he lonely too. If Swerve was any good at expressing himself and if Megatron were any good at opening up, the two would have had a lot to talk about as far as abandonment and solitude went. Granted it was different reasons for both of them, but they had similar emotions and it had to be worth something to know that someone else felt that, didn't it? 

Swerve hovered over the button that would send out the comms that would alert people of the event and that a signup was available. Another poetry night meant another Healing Factor, another night of the soft white noise of the spoken word that softly accented the pitiful attempt of conversation between two washed-up veterans. Sort of washed-up veterans. Two out-of-practice veterans. Two veterans. Two bots who had more in common than Swerve, or any other Autobot, would ever want to admit. 

Despite being an Autobot, despite the little bit of better judgement that he had, Swerve sent out the comm, and was surprised to see that the first name to appear on the queue, faster than he could have expected, was none other than Megatron himself, the guest of honor. 

Names fell into place a bit slowly after Megatron, leaving Swerve to relax on his berth and actually think about the oncoming poetry night. He actually had time to write something if he felt like reading instead of chickening out like last time. Then again, he wasn't so sure that he wanted to read a sloppy love ballad to a room of mechs would could have figured out who the intended was. It was a scary thing to lose anonymity. 

Not that it was a terribly bad thing to be in love. Err, to be infatuated. Sure, it was Megatron, but at least it wasn't Starscream, right? He could always say that to someone if it ever came up. It would probably work too. If nothing else, Autobots and Decepticons could usually agree that Starscream was terrible. Even if he did somehow become the leader of Cybertron. Rung had attempted to reassure him that his feelings, conflicted as they were, were healthy ones, that it was _good_ to feel emotionally invested in the people around him, but did make sure to throw in that the use of the term 'background characters' would become unnecessary if Swerve would apply that attitude to all the patrons at the bar. 

While the queue filled itself, Swerve opened up the file that housed a rather pitiful draft of a poem he had been working on revising since he had read it to the empty bar. It wasn't particularly notable or interesting, and looked more like a bullet list than a poem. Originally, it had been a less-than-subtle piece about his own loneliness, then it became a tribute to Cybertron's moon, a piece meant to act as companion to a certain love poem, until it had finally fallen apart into a mess of unsorted and unpleasant emotions. Planning words was a lot harder than just saying them, it seemed. Too many words, too many precise meanings, too many options. It just seemed easier to not do it. But he had to do it. 

Well, he didn't _have_ to do it but it felt like it had to be done. Swerve had to... Prove himself? He wasn't sure that was the point. He wanted to show more of what he had in common with the warlord. Surely, surely they could connect over his poetry too. At least, he thought they could connect if he could finish the poem. Every word felt like three steps backward. It must have been easier for Megatron for write, it must have been! There was no way someone who wrote so much could have struggled with a choice of adjectives. 

An artist couldn't possibly struggle with his art, could he? Nah. 

Swerve tried to focus on his own attempts at art instead of losing himself in the theories of how Megatron must have worked back before the war. Words blurred together and meaning got lost as easily as it came before he finally surrendered and put the holopad aside, satisfied to work later. Swerve dimmed his optics, and for the first time in ages, entered recharge at a reasonable hour. 

Opening the bar was easier than closing it, and being present earlier in the day meant more time to himself with more minuscule tasks to keep his servos and mind busy. He came in, taking his time to take chairs off the table one by one, setting them around the tables as evenly as he could. Bar stools were flipped the same, seats wiped before he began wiping down the bar. Spigots had housing put on them after being rinsed in cleansing fluids, hoses were reattached and ice makers turned on. The routine had become almost soothing, always the same except for the week where he was missing a few stools after a bar fight and had to work on repairing them and staggering the seats differently. Clean glasses were taken from the drying rack and assembled, lip down, on a small mat that was easier for Swerve to reach when someone ordered a drink, arranged by size and style, as always. The bar was beautiful at night, when the lights danced across armor and glasses, but the morning had a different beauty to it. A serene stillness, something that someone like Minimus would have understood. 

He reminded himself to maybe compare himself to Minimus a little less. Once seemed excessive, twice would warrant an emergency trip to Rung's. 

Early customers were usually the more talkative lot - Ratchet, Drift, occasionally Tailgate and Cyclonus, a few of the ex-cons, and twice Ravage had come in without Megatron. Those two occasions, the beast hadn't ordered anything but made himself very comfortable on a far bar stool which making Swerve very uncomfortable by simply watching his every move while he worked. Swerve had considered naming a drink after the guy, thinking _The Watcher_ would have been a good idea, but generally was a bit embarrassed when people found out he'd named drinks after them. After what he went through with Blurr asking about _The Blue Blur_ when he'd been in, he didn't want to relive the experience. He'd been so hurt about the numbers in his palm that he'd lied and tried to say he'd didn't even know Blurr, which wasn't so much convincing as it was terrible acting. The people who talked about the occurrence afterwards had been kind enough to call it a 'murder' and spare Swerve by covering up how shameful it'd really been. 

Even that didn't stop him from considering naming a drink after Megatron though. Just like that, there he was, back at thinking about Megatron. The napkin holders hadn't even all been refilled yet, and he was doing exactly what he'd hoped to avoid. 

But if he _were_ going to name a drink after Megatron... It would have to be bitter, but without a pungent aftertaste. Something strong enough that you tasted with every sip but not so strong that you couldn't bare to finish it, that'd be wasteful. Something with divided colors, maybe a bright on the bottom and the rest of the drink in that soft grey like his armor... 

The napkin dispenser was so full that napkins were pouring out of it as Swerve tried to fill it. With a sigh Swerve began to gather the spilled napkins, reminding himself that he should focus on his work instead of getting lost in a daze like some newbuild who hasn't felt sparkbreak before. 

One by one he filled the dispensers, keeping himself occupied by making a list of films he wanted to prepare for movie nights and when he wanted to do them again. He also made a note to adjust the lighting for poetry night so it was less harsh for the reader. He was starting to think that poetry should be met with dimmer lights, something more relaxing. Swerve could have benefited from more relaxing. 

The morning crowd came and went, then the brunch crowd, then the lunch crowd, then the late afternoon crowd, then the early evening crowd, and really the times the crowds showed up were meaningless since Swerve wasn't selling candies at the bar or anything and it's not like there was a sunrise or sunset when they weren't in orbit. Nonetheless, the conceptual evening approached and brought with it a different crowd - one that Swerve secretly hoped might have brought Megatron with it.

While it didn't bring Megatron, it did bring out a lot of the bots who had put themselves in the queue earlier in the morning. Most of them were asking about themes, asking about discounts on their drinks if they were reading, asking about everything. Swerve was eager to entertain questions like they were a normal conversation, happy to be talking to anyone at all about the event. Inevitably, people who were around would start eavesdropping and hear about the enthusiasm about the event and consider stopping by themselves - classic group selling. 

It was all going well until someone mentioned Megatron. 

"Megatron is on the roster," The mech said, with an awful lot of gall for an Insecticon. "Are you really going to let him read again?" The question was laced with venom - not an uncommon venom for an Insecticon - and they tapped their spindled servos on the bar while they anticipated their answer. 

It wasn't the best time for the crowd to fall silent and listening, but Primus did they. 

Being put on the spot about it was rough. It wasn't like Swerve was just going to open his mouth and say he had a thing for Megatron and was using poetry night as a means to get him into the bar to talk to him and serve him drinks and try to get to know the mech better because that would sound _terrible_. 

So Swerve settled with the thing that he felt he did best: he decided to talk his way out of it. 

"If I stop him, should I stop you?" Swerve pointedly made a casual gesture at the Decepticon badge that the large bee still wore. The mech looked down, fingers going to cover it as his mouth opened in protest. "The war is _over_ ," Swerve insisted, a short simple phrase that felt more like propaganda whenever he used it. "Megatron is the co-captain. I'm lucky to be running this bar, and he could easily shut this place down. Minimus would side with him on the grounds of discrimination, and not even Rodimus could save my aft then." 

A few murmurs set out into the mostly silent crowd, discussion picking up again and returning to a dull roar. Swerve let out a small vent of relief, knowing it'd go unheard with the crowd alive again. The insect seemed satisfied, taking his drink and standing at a table where he could avoid looking at the bartender while he did his best to find a way to take a lightly intoxicated Sprocket to berth. 

Keeping busy with the crowd and orders was an easy way to keep his mind off the warlord and off the poem he was supposed to be working on, except for when his optics caught the light dancing on armor. It was such a small detail, it was _always_ there. The dispensary always glowed, the lights never went away, but in the evening lighting, when Swerve dimmed the lights for a more intimate experience, it changed everything. The war taught a lot of mechs to admire the simple things in life, to enjoy what little they could whenever they were able. The blues, the pinks, the greens, the yellows, all highlighting the crowd. 

Swerve hastily wrote out a few lines on a holopad before stowing it away. Inspirations was inspiration, who was he to try to deny it's alluring call? Granted it was about dancing colors on a very specific set of armor but Swerve figure with enough flowery language and fancy adjectives that he'd be able to hide his intentions pretty well. 

Not that he had to rush, he had some time before the next poetry night. Hopefully, Megatron would be back around the bar before then. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell i've worked in a restaurant


	4. Birds of a Feather

No one showed up. For the first time since "Visages" had their own failed poetry night, Swerve's was completely empty. And it stayed empty until about an hour into the event Megatron showed up. None of the bots had possessed the courtesy to remove their names from the list before just deciding not to show up. Both mechs knew the crowd had been dissuaded by the promise of Megatron's presence.

Unlike last time there was no polite understanding that the Warlord would be there, and instead, Swerve now had to deal with the fact that he was alone in the bar with the disgruntled warlord and no means of leaving without some for of explanation.

Neither of them had bothered to make any moves towards the stage. The lights hadn't come down to enhance the ambiance, Swerve hadn't turned down the music to respect the speakers; it was a regular night at the bar with a crowd of one. A crowd of one, who happened to be Megatron.

It didn't have to be weird. Swerve didn't have to make it weird. Was not talking more weird than talking? Granted, most mechs were used to Swerve's speech to the point that it became more like white noise than conversation. If he were talking, would Megatron even pay it any mind?

"Why do you keep doing this." Megatron sounded tired. Swerve knew that kind of tired. It was the tired voice of a soldier bringing himself into the barracks, hoping for a little reprieve before the next cycle when he had to pick up a gun again, hoping he could just hold out until sunrise, just a short recharge.

But even when recharge came they woke up tired.

"I just thought, you know," Swerve tried, voice wavering as his vocalizer attempted to stabilize. "You'd come around and we could read a bit. I don't know, talk about the old days, take a look at some poetry, just-"

"I'm not that man anymore!" It was a roar, blistering with fury and static, but in a way that Swerve had never heard before. Megatron's static didn't cut his words like it cut his own, it was thick underneath, like an accent, like he let the glitch work with him. It certainly made him more terrifying.

"The poems are _gone_ , Swerve." He insisted. "I'm not a poet anymore. That died, vorns ago, centuries ago, in a prison cell on a planet we thought we could save. They threw out Autobots, they threw out Decepticons, and now we're all struggling to rebuild life faster than we can destroy it."

Swerve made a point of resetting his vocalizer to keep from mentioning the poetry in the way that Megatron spoke. He may have chosen a sword over a holopad, but he still had it in him. Rung wasn't wrong. Rung was hardly ever wrong.

"I'm not that man anymore." It was still anger. The bitterness, the hurt, the mech that Swerve had expected to reveal himself, was nowhere to be found. "This is foolish. You're wasting your time, you're wasting mine."

The smaller mech's emotions were never hard to read and it didn't take Megatron long to realize that much more shouting and Swerve might have involuntarily entered recharge. Swerve had seen a lot on the battlefield but there was nothing that really replicated the emotions that came with having one of the most powerful tyrants in history shouting in your face that you were an idiot. Flattering, but terrifying.

Swerve just nodded once in response, finding that for once it was easier to keep his mouth shut than try to speak.

The silence was tense and unpleasant; Megatron sipping silently at his drink while Swerve pointlessly polished a glass that was clean before Megatron arrived. Thoughts shot through Swerve's brain with more precision than any bullet he'd ever personally fired. There were _so_ many things that he could say; so many questions to ask, so many reminders to post, so many things he should just confess but... Swerve stared at his reflection in the clean glass. The dispensary reflected behind him, framing him in the soft halo of light.

A bar was the one place a lot of mechs felt safe. They opened up about their emotions, their friends, the war - sometimes they opened up about things that were supposed to be kept secret. Maybe poetry night would have been a great idea if he kept Megatron away. Maybe it would have never worked, with or without Megatron. Maybe the ship was just as ill-prepared for raw emotion as they were for the warlord. The warlord who was so tired but showed up to read poems, old and mostly forgotten, to anyone who might listen. To Autobots and Decepticons and the unaligned, doing exactly what Swerve hoped people would do in the bar. Swerve had wanted the bar to be a chance for people to put aside their differences. No badges, no factions, nothing in the bar but good times and better drinks. Just a place where the war could be over, just for a night or two.  
What good was he doing though if people came in and things got worse?

An entire crowd had avoided and evening because Megatron was going to be there. Megatron wasn't even going to be doing Megatron-stuff while he was there. No guns, no violence, just poetry. Just a bunch of mechs in a dark room reading those nicely arranged words that hid everything but handed it all over. Swerve still hadn't mastered it himself but was thankful that other people had wanted to share. Well, they'd wanted to share until tonight. Some of them had gone so far as to clap for Megatron last time around, people didn't hate it. He understood the reluctance though. A lot of people still held grudges, and rightly so. Megatron had caused a lot of damage. Enough damage that there were mechs who would never forgive him. Swerve couldn't blame them for any of that.

Megatron wasn't looking for forgiveness either.

The veteran just sat in his seat, one hand on his drink and the other on the bar, crossed in front of his chassis. Megatron knew why folks avoided him, there wasn't a reason for him to question any of it. He'd been hated since before the war, then during the war, and then there was now - no better than before, if anything, worse. Megatron had gone from Decepticon to Autobot and made enemies of everyone on every side when he did. Decepticons spat in disgust and Autobots turned their noses up at his self-proclaimed revelations. It didn't matter how genuine or good he was trying to be. It would never be enough for any of them.

Even though keeping quiet was the best thing Swerve could think to do, he found himself just opening his mouth again.

"Then why do you keep coming?" Swerve glanced up from the glass, not going so far as to lift his head and make it look like this was a real conversation. He could pass it off as a rhetorical question if he didn't look interested. _Why_ did he want to poke the beast? Why was he subjecting himself to Megatron's potential anger?

With a sharp exvent, Megatron flipped his empty glass, rim against the bar. He wove his servos together in front of him, lifting his head a little. The colors of the dispensary highlighted every crevice and divet in his helm, painting him in muted neons instead of his modest grey.

"I don't know, Swerve." He admitted. Swerve still didn't lift his head all the way, waiting. "I just don't know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for being so good about waiting y'all, last chapter goes up tomorrow. sorry it's all been such self-indulgent fluff, but not sorry enough to do anything about it.


	5. Drowning Romantic Sorrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking around y'all, i'm sorry that this chapter has so little substance for a finale. 
> 
> my recommended listening for this chapter is bruce springsteen's "dancing in the dark"

  
Megatron stormed into the bar. Trapped behind the bar, Swerve had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide from the angry warlord. This was the last chance he'd have to tell the truth. The bar was empty, another poetry night failure, another night where only Megatron would show up, but this time was no accident.

Rumors had spread, as they always did on the ship, that the whole thing was some sort of personal insult towards Megatron - despite that Swerve had thought his hospitality might have come off as genuine for once. Two firm servos shattered that expectation and sent spiderweb cracks dancing across the surface. Swerve didn't fear for his life but certainly feared for his health, bumping into the dispensary and tightening his grip on a glass he'd spent ages polishing already. The bright colors of the tanks danced against the grey matte as they always did, this time the pale light abruptly interrupted by the furious glow of two red optics.

Explatives and curses and words that wouldn't have come from someone who wasn't hurt poured out of Megatron. If he hadn't been so occupied with his fury, Swerve would have better noticed the poetry of every single punctuated word; rehearsed timelessly and so carefully selected that anyone who heard them would have no question of their intentions, no misunderstanding of their meaning.

"Is it supposed to be a _joke_?" The words cut through the air, right through Swerve, more effecient than any blaster. "Do you think it's _funny_?"

He didn't. All Swerve had wanted was to somehow have these events fold out into some sort of feasible romance. It always worked for humans, it always worked in the films, but Swerve already knew how fabricated those were. Humans weren't like that. Cybertronians weren't like that. No one was like that. And if no one was more not-that than anyone else, it was probably Megatron. Megatron: the ex-Decepticon leader turned Autobot, the co-captain of the Lost Light, a warlord, a tyrant, a poet, and someone that Swerve wanted too fulfill emotionally. Swerve wanted everyone to feel good; that's why he opened the bar, that's why he'd pick up a mech's tab when the shanix ran out, that's why he showed feel-good movies and tried to stay optimistic. But he had never wanted to see someone happy the way he wanted to see Megatron happy - well, not in a long time anyway. A lot of mech's didn't think he deserved to be happy after what he did. Swerve wasn't sure about he felt about all that.

In the midst of his rage, Megatron's tightly closed fist came crashing onto the bar top. The laminate spider webbed, sharp shards catching light that reflected in Megatron's clenched dentae.

The war was supposed to be over. They kept saying that. Rodimus, Minimus, patrons, Decepticons and Autobots alike. _The war is over._ If the war was supposed to be over, they needed to stop fighting it on their own ship. They needed to stop fighting Megatron. Megatron: the _ex_ -Decepticon, the _co-captain_ of the Lost Light. Megatron, the _Autobot._

Swerve was ready to try to end the fight himself. What did he have to lose? Business? The people who claimed to be his friends but wanted free drinks? If Swerve had so little to lose, why hadn't he just done something already? Why the facade of the poetry nights, why the cobbled attempt at poetry to win the grey mech's affections?

Swerve was finally forced to confront an emotion he hadn't wanted to address, and had intended to go the rest of his life denying.  
Swerve was scared.

Megatron sat in front of him, waiting, wanting an explanation, knowing that this moment was going to be intimate and honest and ugly because Swerve lacked the poetic finesse to tell the story and be gentle but fierce. He wasn't that. Megatron was that. Swerve was a loud-mouth bartender who could match a racer's mph with his word count. He wasn't someone known for being anything other than comic relief. Fear wasn't allowed.

But Swerve was scared. And he knew. And Rung knew. And Megatron probably knew too.

What if Swerve asked? What if he let this blossom into a relationship? Would he be able to tell Megatron 'no' or would he be too scared of losing him? Would he overcome his own fears of intimacy and say 'yes' or would he stay quiet and leave Megatron wondering if there was any consent to be found between them? Glass cracked in his servos, small, sharp shards inching against his plating.

The barkeep had been worried about intimacy for a long time. It wasn't celibacy or asexuality, it was a genuine fear of intimacy. Between being forgotten by heroes and denied friendships, the last thing the mech wanted was to disappoint a lover - a _conjux_. Sure, sure, you don't go that far with a mech not knowing their comfort levels and they would know, but how much of it would they know? How much of it would Swerve really be able to say outloud?

Apparently, none, because Megatron still sat expectantly while Swerve stood in a shockingly silent stupor.

"Well?" It was a demand now. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"Because I want you to keep coming to the bar." Swerve admitted in a blurt that was less of a phrase and more of a word haphazardly shoved together like a damaged Combiner.

In a most surprising turn of events, Megatron looked _shocked_

"I'm at the bar at least twice-" He was still angry. The fear Swerve felt now must have been nothing compared to what people felt facing down Megatron on the battlefield, but _Primus_ the fear was real.

"I know!" Swerve's vocalizer grated with static. The glass broke in his hand. "I know." He repeated, calmer and using the opportunity to look away from the warlord and pick fragments from between his plating before they began interferring with his protoform and he had to have _another_ doctor telling him that he might be making some bad decisions emotionally. Not that Rung actually said anything like that, but it felt implied.

"I know you're here... occassionally." The glass _tink_ ed as it felt from his servos onto the floor. "But I like you being here. I feel like we have things in common. And I don't know, I like hearing your poetry. I've always liked your poetry. I'm _still_ reading your old poetry." It felt easier to confess when he wasn't looking at him, almost as though Swerve could be talking to himself. "I kept having poetry nights hoping you would come but I didn't thinks would get out of hand like this and-"

"Thank you."

" _What_?" Swerve's optics shot up, so fast he had to grab onto the edge of the bar to stop himself from completely falling forward. Of all things for Megatron to say-

"You didn't need to and did things you felt would make me feel welcome." Megatron appeared to suffer the same as Swerve, his own optics locked on the hands that likely had suffered a few nicks and scratches from the broken cup. Megatron looked tense, tense for someone who was handing out thanks and trying to alleviate and kind of burden Swerve had as a host. "No one asked you to. I don't deserve it, but you did."

"No, look," Swerve was feeling lightheaded. Did cuts make him lightheaded? He didn't think they did but was having trouble remembering and trying to remember anything over the roar of his nervous venting wasn't helping his concentration. "I've been doing it because I like you."

"...Like me." Megatron repeated, words skeptical and unsure.

".... Have you been to movie night? Have you seen _The X-Files_?" Swerve hoped a comparison would make it easier.

"No."

"Primus, alright, uh, did you come for _The Princess Bride_?"

Megatron gave a terse nod. Somehow Swerve had tricked nearly the entire crew into watching it.

"Like Westley. I mean, like Westley likes Buttercup."

The comparison felt foolish when he said it out loud.

After a moment of gears turning while Megatron put human names to human faces, the realization donned on him and Swerve was blessed with the divine gift of a pale red heat illuminating the ex-Decepticon's faceplates. Swerve, master of smooth moves and seduction, maybe wasn't as smooth as he thought if his advances had gone unnoticed.

It felt weird to finally say it out loud to someone who wasn't Rung. It felt weirder seeing that it had apparently flustered _Megatron, destroyer of galaxies_ , who was rumored to have sharpened his dentae to eat a Decepticon traitor. Untrue, of course, Swerve hoped. His dentae weren't sharp now so it did leave unanswered questions but it seemed as though now was not the time to ask.

So Swerve did what Swerve did best, fill and uncomfortable silence with his own voice.

"I mean, I get that it might be the whole 'idea of you thing' and so my opinions are a bit skewed because it's not like we _talk_ outside of the bar, but no one really talks to me outside the bar besides Minimus and that's usually just about he bar." The more he talked, unusually, the more panicked he felt that not only was Megatron not saying anything, Megatron wasn't stopping him. Swerve felt like he was going to offline, he was so disoriented and dizzy and nervous and nauseous and suddenly incredibly thirsty. "I-I thought the poetry night would be a good way to get you in but I didn't know if you still wrote anything and I honestly only did it because I felt bad at first about what happened at Mirage's because I told and Whirl and Whirl told Rung and Rung told _you_ and I knew that it would bring the crowd back and-"

"You sabotaged the poetry night." There was a soft malice in Megatron's tone, a tone that Swerve knew expected the truth. It was no surprise that the only Decepticon who got away with anything was Starscream who was too full of himself to hear the subtle implications.

"....yeah." Swerve confessed. "But-But I threw my own after I heard everyone left because I didn't think _that_ would happen and I don't understand why it happened, your poetry is _good_ it moved an entire _planet_ to change and I mean yeah it wasn't great or perfect but it happened, and..."

Megatron had his head in his hands, elbows propped on the bar. Saying it all out loud again, Swerve realized he had probably made more than one mistake. If he had to put a list together, Swerve figured that making a list of the things that weren't mistakes would have been easier. Of all the things he could think of, Swerve could think of only one thing off the top of his head that hadn't been a mistake.

It was telling Megatron the truth.

"Swerve," He began. "I don't know where to begin."

The anger had left him, and this was a voice that Swerve was unfortunately more familiar with. Tired, hurt, worn-out ol' Megatron. The Megatron that would come in just before closing, order one drink and then leave. This Megatron, the Real Megatron, was the Megatron Swerve had wanted to help. The Megatron that Swerve wanted to see happy again, and hoped still had a little bit of poetry left in him.

Maybe it wasn't as much of 'the idea of him' as Swerve had thought.

Giving Megatron a moment to mull over the emotions he had, which had been admittedly a whirlwind, Swerve began pouring him a drink. He went a little heavier on the sweet syrup than he would have normally, but figured the sweetness would do the old man good.

Megatron drank it, one hand still against his helm.

"Of all the ridiculous things I've heard on this ship, this is the most ridiculous."

The weight in his tanks shifted. Swerve wasn't sure where this conversation was going to go, but he didn't like it so far. Megatron took hard swigs of the sweet, salmon colored beverage. Not so pink as to be energon, not so orange as to be... Well, Rung. Swerve waited, as patiently as he could, which did entail purposefully crushing the glass shards under his pedes as Megatron gathered his thoughts.

His response was unanticipated.

"This wouldn't work."

Well, that meant he had a chance!

"With all the things that do work on this ship, why wouldn't _this_?" Swerve prodded. He hoped that maybe Megatron really believed things wouldn't work out between them and wasn't using it as an excuse to try to spare Swerve's feelings. Swerve had been hurt enough over the years, emotional rejection of this sort meant nothing by comparison. It would still hurt, but like all pain Swerve would push it to the back of his brain until he inevitably pretended to forget about it.

Megatron sighed. A heavy, weary sigh.

"This isn't the life you want for yourself, Swerve."

"Is it the life _you_ want?" Over the years, Swerve had gotten pretty good at arguing/debating/interrogating. It was something that had always come kinda naturally to him, given his affinity for speech after all.

"No." Megatron answered firmly. "And I wouldn't wish it on another mech."

That was hard to argue with. Between the isolation and discrimation, and the overall negative emotions towards Megatron onboard, it wouldn't be easy for another he decided to take to berth. Not surprisingly, that information wasn't enough to deter Swerve.

"Well why not make your own life better, then?" Swerve would have laid the line on thicker if he'd had the eyebrows Rung had. They were _made_ for lines like that.

"You think you're able to make things like this better." Megatron wasn't wrong to be skeptical and unimpressed.

"No," Swerve began. "But sometimes a good thing can make bad things less bad, even if it doesn't make the bad things go away. Like being on the ship sucks slag sometimes, we're all miserable and as much as I love a good quest, no one thought things would go like this. But you see mechs in here smiling all the time. You can hear them laughing, they gather together with friends and have a good time, even with bad things happening all around them. We did stuff like that during the war, too. You know, a drink to the revolution, things like that."

With a pensive look into his glass, now empty of everything but ice, Megatron shrugged his shoulders.

"You're not wrong." He said. Not wrong was basically be right. It was at least _close_ to being right. Swerve would take what he could get.

"Give me a try." Swerve beamed, leaning over the bar, hands supporting him with fingers splayed to better distribute his weight. "I'm not the sharpest, smartest, smoothest, fastest... I'm best bartender onboard, you get free drinks on me, and I'm pretty good company. After all-" a well timed servo-gun. "You kept coming back."

The color returned to the warlord's faceplates, all different shades manifesting in the light of the dispensary, Swerve's favorite view in the bar. Megatron said nothing, stood up, and walked out without another word. Swerve stayed poised, prepared for him to turn around in the doorway when he didn't. Megatron just kept walking until the doors shut behind him and left Swerve alone with another failed poetry night.

For the first time in ages, Swerve closed early. He didn't post a sign outside the door, he just locked up and returned to his habisuite. The walk back to his room felt longer and colder than it had in a long time. The bar had been doing well lately for the most part, he had plenty to be happy about but failed to take his own advice. The doors locked behind him as he found his way to his berth, content to sit in silence with his own thoughts if they were the only ones who could keep him company when Rung's office wasn't open. Sure, Rung said it was always open but a mech shows up twice during his recharge cycle and the lil guy gets a bit cranky. Not enough for most me he's to notice, but Swerve did.

He took a heavy seat on his berth, his own weight suddenly more than he could bare.

Rejection used to come easy, or at least Swerve acted like it did. What good was it in dwelling on misery when happiness could be right around the corner? Granted, it never was, but that was no reason to be pessimistic. He let his weight shift, slumping against the wall with a dull metallic _thunk_.

The bar would be fine for a night. He needed the night off. He needed to stop... all of this. No more baiting warlords, no more forced poetry nights, no more letting patrons whisper about Megatron being around. No more. Swerve would just recharge and reset it all in the morning, just act like nothing had happened and everything was fine. Acting like things were fine made other mechs think that things were fine, and that was important. The bar was a sanctuary of sorts, he had to be prepared to make everyone feel okay. It was his job as a good bartender.

Just once though, it would have been nice for someone other than Rung to make sure that he was feeling okay. That didn't matter as much now - he would be fine. This wasn't the first sparkbreak, it wouldn't be the last, and Cybertron kept turning no matter what he felt. Sometimes that was a good feeling, cosmic insignificance was a great way to downplay his pain. Pain was normal, pain was meaningless. Pain always went away eventually.

He had felt pain before. Pain went away, eventually, or became easier to ignore.

And it would have been easily ignored if a ping hadn't come through his commlink.

A surprising ping, from non-other than Megatron.

_Closed?_ said the message. Nothing else.

Swerve didn't know how to respond. Megatron had gone back to the bar? Why? Swerve sat there, trying to gather his own thoughts when a second ping came through, also from Megatron.

_I was under the impression it was poetry night._

Swerve only felt more confused. Megatron had just left! Why would he have left only to-

_I brought a few old pieces. Seems like there's an audience for them._


End file.
